


i know who i want to take me home

by damnromulans (beastofaburden)



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 18:46:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beastofaburden/pseuds/damnromulans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leonard McCoy owns a bar, and Jim Kirk doesn't know how tabs work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i know who i want to take me home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shecrows](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shecrows/gifts).



> The title from this work comes from Semisonic's revered ballad 'Closing Time.' Because I already wrote a fucking bar AU, I might as well go for the maximum amount of embarrassment available. 
> 
> This one was inspired by [this post](http://leighway.tumblr.com/post/63416845066/cheesoisuncool-i-keep-seeing-the-words-coffee) and is therefore dedicated to Camille because she can drive me to writing shitty ficlets via tag commentary.

The first time, Leonard’s dragging the kid out of the bar by the scruff of his neck. He’s checked him over already for breaks and fractures, stuffed a few napkins up the asshole’s nose for good measure. With that in mind he feels no guilt whatsoever about tossing his sorry ass into the gutter.

However, it’s as the kid is stumbling into a cab that Leonard finds enough sense to bark “You didn’t even pay your damn tab!”

“I’ll get it next time!” comes the slurred reply, before car door slams and he speeds off into the night. Leonard’s just on the tired side of angry, and does nothing more than stomp back inside after throwing a lazy bird after the taxi. 

He’ll probably never see the kid again, anyway.

-

Turns out they’re both wrong. It’s not the last time Leonard sees the kid, and he sure as hell doesn’t pay his goddamn tab.

The kid’s a law student. He finds that out when he comes in late some nights, suited up, with a pair of guys that Leonard calls Fly Boy and the Bowl Cut. They’ll leave after a few rounds of beer and that’s when the kid’s smile turns slick, when he’ll have some pretty thing trailing out the door with him three hours before last call.

He gains a name when he crowds into a corner booth with a loud Scotsman on a rainy Saturday afternoon, when calls of “Bloody hell, Jim!” punctuate the room every few minutes, and the answering laugh is low and just a hint rough, like his favourite bourbon.

But when every so often turns into every other week, and when every other week turns into every other day, Leonard barely notices. He’s too busy collecting up tidbits of a life – watching for a smile that cuts through the din of the dull room without even trying.

It would be easy to call it nothing. A fleeting interest; it’s not as if Leonard hasn’t had his moments with patrons before. But easy’s relative, and there’s one thing he can’t shake: that matter what the occasion, who he’s with, Jim will always find time to toss Leonard a look that says ‘Next time?’ Leonard will nod, and that’ll be it.

Nyota catches him, eventually. Sees the nod, and the kid. Then she checks the tab for herself.

“ _Jesus Christ_ , Len, how did you let it get this bad?”

He asks himself the damn question every time.

-

“You sure you don’t want me to…?”

“’S fine, Ny. Go home. Or go see Bowl Cut, don’t think I missed you slipping him that napkin last week.”

“Or I could just lock myself in a bar with him after last call, lights low, soft music playing…”

“Good _night_ , Nyota.”

It’s been quiet, even for a weeknight. That’s the only reason why Leonard didn’t have a problem with the kid commandeering nearly half the bar with a spread of notes and textbooks. He kept the Jack coming whilst Jim worried at the end of a pen, scribbled furiously, completely oblivious to everything but his papers and the man who kept refilling his glass.

He’s still got a few things to do. He puts up chairs, checks and double-checks locks, sprays-and-wipes. He feels Jim’s gaze before he sees it, really - and when Leonard does turn to face him, eventually, he’s slumped back in his stool with the tiniest quirk shaping his lips. 

Leonard’s reaching for the bottle and a second glass before he even thinks.

Glass clinks. It goes down easy – all the easier for being able to watch the tendons in Jim’s neck work, the way his tongue snakes out to catch an errant droplet. And the kid knows he’s watching, of course. There’s a heat in those blue eyes. It’s intent, focused, but not impatient.

Jim’s glad, Leonard realizes, and he's surprised to find that he feels the same way.

“So, I was thinking,” Jim taps absently at the side of his glass, but he doesn’t look anywhere but at Leonard. “If you own the bar, does it still count if I buy you a drink?”

Leonard rolls his eyes. But, there’s no hiding the fondness in his voice. What would be the point, now?

“Kid, I don’t think you’ve bought a single drink here since I’ve known you.”

Jim leans forwards, suddenly, rests his elbows on the bar. He’s so close that Leonard can feel the heat of his breath – so close that it would be easy, really, to close the distance and lick the tang of the whiskey out of his mouth. 

“I can pay you back, if you want.” Jim says it slowly, like the first toe in the water, and the question’s deeper than the words make out.

With a shake of his head and the beginnings of a smile, Leonard gives the only reply that fits.

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, kid. Next time.”


End file.
